“What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen.” ~Cynthia Ozick
It was Mother’s Day and in honor of my mother, my father took Peg, G and I to a hotel restaurant downtown for dinner. Despite my parents divorce years prior, I was never one of those children who wished for my parents to reconcile and live among unicorns and rainbows, so I took it for what it was and enjoyed the meal and the ‘surprise’ that both of my parents had planned for after dinner.
We were enjoying our meals, when my father tapped me on the shoulder and told me to look over there. I looked up and saw nothing. He pressed on and told me to keep looking. He pointed, I looked around and went back to my chicken fingers.
Exasperated, he grabbed my hand and made me move away from the honey mustard and brought me over to the other side of where we were seated. I noticed nothing – NOTHING – out of the ordinary and removed myself from his grip and went back to salivating over my food.
To this day, I don’t know how I missed ‘it’. The ‘It’, the man that he was trying to show me. Because then the man walked up to our table…completely nonchalantly, as if he and my father were BFFE. How do you miss a man with that unmistakable hair? Shaved on the sides into multiple lines and a little bit left on the top. And those pants?? I should’ve seen the pants from a mile away. They were HIS trademark pants. Gold Hammer pants. My father had been trying to get me to see MC Hammer, but I was too busy being transfixed by the golden fingers and French fries.
He and my father chatted for a bit, while I sat in utter silence, because I ran away from MC Hammer; I ran away like he was going to kidnap me and take me to the great Hammer Mansion where I could have all the chicken and honey mustard my little heart desired. Afterwards we left dinner for our surprise – Boys II Men of course. And on the way there my dear, wonderful father proceeded to stop every other person on the street to inform them that his daughter had just run away from MC Hammer. This is something that I have yet to live down, along with that time that I peed all over our rental car in
A few months later, which I would presume to be the end of my Hammer hey day, G and I decided to put on a little show for all of our friends. We donned our very own Hammer Pants – G’s were denim and mine were some strange cotton type thing with neon flowers – and did my personally choreographed moves to 2 Legit.
And Lord, I thought I was hot. HOT: Because there is nothing hotter than a boobless eight year old rolling her non-existent hips and singing ‘Can’t Touch This’.